Changing a World
by Minimatt
Summary: Wizards have absolutely no common sense. But what if one single wizard by the name of Harry Potter had it, and used it to the best of his abilities? World, watch out, a slightly autistic and heavily abused Harry Potter is coming. Slow buildup, no slash or smut at all, no pairings yet.
1. Chapter 1 Prologue

**A/N: Hello everybody!**

**This will probably be a long and pointless author's note, so if you want to skip it, scroll down until you get to the prologue.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any affiliated trademark or copyright. I do not make money by writing this story on this site.  
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**Firstly, **I would like to tell everybody that I am going to enter one of the busiest times of my life, college, and so I might not find time to write. Also, as readers from my other fanfics might know, I am a notoriously slow updater. The Fears of a Prince is updated roughly every month, and this fanfic will most likely be a lot slower in updates than even that. That said, I would like to invite anyone that thinks I need to update this story to send me a PM or write a review (update ploxx! is review enough for me), because it is one of the best (and only) ways to get me writing. I would therefore like to ask forgiveness for any slow updates or missed deadlines, as I will likely have both many times.

**Secondly, **I'm trying out both a new writing style and a new style of writing with this story. The style of writing refers to how I write my stories (now: different one-shots formed together into one story. Then: One continuously-written chapter), the writing style refers to grammar, vocabulary, syntaxis and other such things. Please let me know in reviews whether either of these are insanely good or insanely bad, because I like getting reviews (for one) and also like results to my experiments in writing.

**Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, **I want to request some input from my readers. For now, the first month(s) or so, this story will be relatively small, but as it progresses, I hope, I would like to request various things that I either cannot do or are not skilled enough to do without making myself look like a complete idiot. Therefore, if anyone is a capable artist, I love any **drawings, sketches** and **other works of art** made based on my story, or fitting to the storyline. If you find any interesting pictures about which you think: 'Hey! This fits with the story!', please, send me a link to the picture. Maybe I'll contact the author to see if I can use it as the **story's picture, **since I don't have one yet. Furthermore, if anyone wants to add this fanfic to a **community**, please do so. Communities mean more readers, more readers mean happy author (and that's me!).

I am currently looking for a **Beta reader**, maybe more than one. He or she would preview my chapters (meaning you get them earlier than the rest of the world), and I would take their input very seriously. I'm a notoriously messy writer myself, so I'm looking for someone who can catch all my grammatical mistakes. Beyond that: Anyone who could criticize the facts used in my story and win in an argument will almost certainly be accepted as a beta reader.

With that said, I want to thank those who have taken their time to read through this, and will read through my story. And for everyone, including those who thought: TL;DR:

**ENJOY!**

**A/N out.  
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**Edit: **I uploaded the edited version of this chapter earlier than I had intended, since I'll not post any updates until the end of September. University is starting, and I cannot yet tell how much time it's going to take to get used to 'the good life'. There were several small spelling errors in this chapter, and a pretty severe chronological error. Thanks to David305 for pointing that one out.**  
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"Tell me, O muse, of the man of many stories. Tell me of his deeds, his quests, his friends and his enemies. Tell me of his secrets, his goals and ambitions, of his dreams and secret desires. Tell me, O muse, since I have forgotten. Begin at the beginning, and end at the end, for my mind is old and cannot think in turns. I beg of you, O muse, tell me."

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**Chapter 1 – Prologue**

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_I feel it is my duty as a writer to warn you that I'm going to start my story with the most over-clichéd sentence in the history of over-clichéd sentences._

'Once upon a time...'

...

_Ok, that sentence just sucks. I'm going to try again._

'In the beginning...'

_Okay, better. Now I need to find something to end that sentence with. Preferably something that happened in the beginning._

'In the beginning, there was a big bang (figuratively speaking), and the universe started.'

_Maybe not that far in the beginning._

'In the beginning, around the year one thousand..."

_Still too early._

'...nine-hundred...'

_Starting to look better._

'...seventy...'

_Still a little early for the story._

'...seventy-nine...'

_Still early. I don't want to bore all my readers to death by telling stories that aren't fun._

'...sixty...'

_I said too **early**! You stupid, ignorant... Oh. Wait. I just insulted myself._

...

_Bloody hell this is difficult! Who in the name of something holy made me the writer of this story?_

...

_Bloody..._

...

_Hrmpf. Looks like I don't have a choice._

_All right then. But don't complain if you don't like it!_

'In the beginning, around the year one thousand nine-hundred and eighty, a baby was born by the name of Harold James Potter. His parents, Lily Potter née Evans and James Potter, loved him very much and they were the happiest family in the world.'

_Sappy, isn't it?_

'In the days after his birth, James and Lily found out, like any parents of a child will do at some point in their life, that their little baby was special. He was the most attentive newborn they had ever seen, with clear green eyes gazing everywhere they could when he was awake. He seemed extremely aware of the world around him and, contrary to most babies that have been labelled as 'special' by their doting parents, he was quite as his parents were saying. Extremely aware of the situation around him, where most infants have very bad vision in their first few weeks he seemed to have almost perfect vision from day one, he'd respond to sounds both far away and up close and he would react to even the smallest things his parents –or anyone else for that matter – did around him.

The first weeks of Harry's life turned into months. He grew like any healthy baby boy, but he grew faster in mind than in body. He crawled like no other had ever crawled, exploring everything and looking at anything with his innocent yet strangely attentive gaze. The energetic boy drove his mother Lily in hopeless fits sometimes, when she thought she had lost him but he was actually busy exploring the Potter Manor.

Little Harry was a sweet boy. Whenever anybody he knew felt down, from the war that was raging outside the protected walls of the house, Harry did his very best to cheer them up. He made his mother smile by making her presents, unusually thoughtful for a boy of only one year old. The war took a heavy toll on the Potter family, but Harry did his best to lighten the load. He was a source of love to his mother, and a source of great amusement for his father James and their good friends Sirius and Remus. James and Sirius would play and laugh with him under the watchful eye of either Lily or Remus, while their other good friend Peter was mostly busy with taking care of his old mother and couldn't be around overly much. But Harry, who almost never made a fuss about anyone not directly family, didn't like the short, mousy man, and neither did the short, mousy man like Harry, so it wasn't that much of a problem.

With Lily working as an unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries in the Ministry of Magic, James working as a captain Auror in the Wizarding Police force and the inheritance of late Mr and Mrs Potter, they had all the money they could possibly need and a lot more. They showered little Harry with gifts, but didn't pamper him unnecessarily. Sirius and Remus were almost living with the Potters in their Manor, spending as much time with little Harry as his parents. The other members of the organisation both James and Lily were member of, as well as Sirius, Remus and Peter of course, The Order of the Phoenix, visited almost daily. Little Harry was loved by everyone, and he loved almost everyone back equally as much.'

_Yuck. All that sap makes me feel like an acorn with diarrhea. Let's throw a proverbial rock through the window!_

'But on the evening of Halloween in the year nineteen eighty-one, the village of Godric's Hollow in West Country, England, was in a state of uproar. Minutes ago the Potter Cottage, one of the oldest homes in the village, had been blown away by a huge explosion. The roof and back of the second floor were utterly destroyed, and only a few walls of the front of the floor remained. Muggles and wizards alike had felt the explosion and magical backlash that resulted from the first time in known history that the Killing Curse had rebounded.

The Potters had moved in only a few months ago, on the pressing advice of their old friend and mentor Albus Dumbledore. They had constructed a plan where the house would be brought under the 'fidelius-charm', a piece of quite ancient magic where the exact location of a property is locked away in the soul of the 'secret keeper.' No one can find the property then, not even by accident, unless they are told by the secret keeper. The Potters, in an attempt to confuse the enemy, had taken their friend Peter as their secret keeper. Everyone would expect Sirius Black or Remus Lupin to be the secret keeper, for they were the most powerful friends of the Potters save Albus Dumbledore, whereas Peter, as a mediocre wizard, wouldn't be expected to know the location of the Potters. This had caused them to move from Potter Manor to Potter Cottage in Godric's Hollow, since Peter couldn't perform the difficult fidelius-charm on something the size of the Potter Manor.

Unbeknownst to the Potters, or any Order Members for that matter, Peter was a secret death eater, a follower of the Dark Lord Voldemort, the enemy of the Potters. Voldemort had heard of a Prophecy that spoke of a boy with a strength greater than his, a power he knew not, born as the seventh month dies. Harry Potter was born on July the thirty-first, the day the seventh month dies, so Voldemort saw the now sixteen month old infant as a great threat to his power. On Halloween, traditionally the beginning of the darker half of the year, Voldemort found the time right to strike and deal with this threat.

Many pops and cracks sounded the arrival of the members of the Order of the Phoenix, a group of wizards and witches that had battled Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord responsible for the current state of the Potter cottage. Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, was the first amongst them to enter the remains of the Potter Cottage.

As soon as the aged Dumbledore entered the Potter Cottage, a feeling of sorrow and regret overcame him. James Potter's corpse lay on the floor, eyes wide open in surprise with the word 'Lily!' on his lips. The old man bowed his head in regret, but stepped around the remains of one of the few of his pupils he considered good friends. He made his way towards the nursery of the sixteen month-old Harry Potter, whom he knew Voldemort was after.

Dumbledore bowed his head in grief again when he saw the body of Lily Potter on the floor next to the crib. She was too, one of the few he considered close friends. He stepped over to the crib to check the infant, and to his great surprise he could still sense life in the little body. He picked the boy up and checked for a pulse. His heart sighed with relief as he found one.

The worries of the infant being alive now temporarily subsided, he turned around to seek what could possibly have caused Voldemort to leave. Voldemort only ever came somewhere to kill, no one had ever stopped him before or even got him to leave whilst surviving. But there, in front of the section of the wall that was mostly blown off in the back of the house, in a circle of ashes and soot where the ground was charred, lay the remains of a black cloak and a wand – Voldemorts wand.

Voldemort was gone, and Harry Potter had survived.

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**1980, Hogsmeade, Scotland**

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The eve of Thursday the seventh of February was cold and wet. Rain poured from the sky in big drops, and the town of Hogsmeade in Scotland was deserted. Lights could be seen through the windows of homes and shops, but nobody was out.

Nobody, except an elderly man, whose long white beard was dripping with the rain. His glasses had fogged over, his violently purple robes were darkened by the water and his whole figure seemed to be drenched. This image he projected wasn't false, like many of the images he could project. He was a drenched old man out alone in one of the heaviest storms of the year. But the rain and the cold meant little to Headmaster Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, the old man out in the harsh weather.

In fact, the old man barely noticed the storm raging around him. His mind was spinning and turning from what he had heard not more than half an hour ago, interpreting words and meanings, creating and dismissing plots and plans, but discarding them as fast as they were formed. Not more than half an hour ago, Albus Dumbledore had been the recipient of a prophecy. A prophecy which could mean very much, or very little, depending on the interpretation.

"_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies ..._"

To be the recipient of a prophecy was a true honor. It meant that Magic itself had chosen you to be the bearer of faith. Prophecies were rare too, as even Albus Dumbledore knew of only a handful of people that had witnessed one firsthand. The unnaturally altered voice of Sybill Trelawney was eerie to hear, and the content of the Prophecy was even more foreboding, but Albus Dumbledore considered himself honored that he had witnessed this event.

The only fact that called his attention away from interpreting the prophecy here and now was the fact that there had been an eavesdropper. Someone had listened to the prophecy as well, but he had only heard the first part. His own brother Aberforth, owner of Hog's Head Tavern, where the prophecy had been made, had seen the eavesdropper, but the eavesdropper had seen him as well and had portkeyed away immediately. Albus was worried that it had been a spy for the Dark Lord Voldemort, who was almost beyond a doubt the 'Dark Lord' mentioned in the prophecy.

Dumbledore knew that Tom Riddle, Voldemort's original name, was clever, and would understand the meaning and weight of this particular prophecy. He would have to move fast and decisively to stop Voldemort from trying to counter the prophecy, or trying to alter it. That was his task, as the first recipient of the whole prophecy.

Albus Dumbledore made up his mind on the way to the school of which he was Headmaster, Hogwarts. He would call an extra meeting of the Order of the Phoenix, the vigilante group he led against the armies of Lord Voldemort, and caution all of them to pay extra attention to Death Eater activities. After that, he could try to check with St Mungo's and maybe even the Ministry how many women were pregnant and would give birth around the end of July. He knew there were several women in the order pregnant, but he would need to narrow it down to only those who would give birth at 'the end of the seventh month'.

With extra haste in his step, Albus Dumbledore almost ran back to Hogwarts to prepare. This prophecy could very well mean the end to the war!

* * *

**Three days before All Hallows Eve, 1981**

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"Crucio!" The eerie form of Voldemort spoke the pain-curse without a second thought. The unlucky servant on the floor writhed and screamed in pain.

"This is what liars get, 'Wormtail'. You should have thought of that before withholding information from me!" Voldemort shouted through the dark room.

"Master… I… Please…" Wormtail begged.

"You do not deserve the mercy of dying, Wormtail. Crucio!" Voldemort cast the pain curse again.

"Tell me where the Potters are!" He bellowed.

"Master… Please…"

"Tell me! Or I shall torture you until there is nothing left of your pathetic mind and then I shall get the answer out of your rotting corpse!"

"…Please…"

"Tell me, Wormtail." Voldemort spoke softly, but even more dangerously. "What would you choose? Would you choose to die for the men you called 'friends', men who aren't here? Where are they, Wormtail, and why aren't they here for you? Shouldn't friends help you in times of need?"

Voldemort turned around, facing away from his quivering servant. "Or will you choose to tell me where they are now, and be spared? Surely you know where they are, don't you? I can be quite merciful if the situation merits it…"

"They… they are behind a Fidelius charm, Master…" Wormtail spoke

"I know that, servant. But I also know that you," Here Voldemort stalked closer to Wormtail until they were almost nose to not-nose, and Wormtail shrunk practically through the floor, "are their secret keeper. You can get revenge on your foolish friends, the ones that made you come here, the ones that caused you to be my servant. They have failed you, haven't they, Wormtail?"

"Yes, Master."

"Don't you want to get revenge then, Wormtail?"

"Yes, Master."

"Then where are the Potters?"

Wormtail let out a gulp before answering. "The Potters are living at number 7, Godric's Hollow."

"Very good, my servant." Voldemort said. "Crucio."

The screams of Peter Pettigrew echoed into the night for a long time.

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**A/N: You like? Please leave a review!**


	2. Chapter 2 Primary School

**A/N: Hello everybody!**

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**Before I forget, a disclaimer:**

**I do not own Harry Potter (unfortunately), nor any of the affiliated characters that are canon and are used in this story, any trademarks or copyrights. I make no monetary gain by writing this story, so sueing me will give you zilch.**

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**This chapter **is the first where my new 'style' of writing actually should be visible. Originally, this chapter was 9 different pieces I wrote for nine different stories. They were edited (some quite heavily, others fitted in quite well) afterwards to make it a more complete whole, rather than nine different shorts.

This chapter documents part of the timeline that isn't very well documented in canon, but is (I think) the most extensively-written timeline part in fanon. Each little short is a moment of a year of Harry's life through Elementary/Primary school. The School's name is actually (sort of) canon, St. Grogory's Primary School can be seen on an award in the First Harry Potter film (Though it isn't mentioned by name in the book).**  
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**On the whole, this chapter is the longest single chapter I have ever written on this site, **but since it is made up out of various different parts, the longest of which is nearly 5,000 words. To prevent confusion, every different short will be separated by a double horizontal line with additional information in between. For the parts that have a title, this may be the title, for that parts that haven't, I'll include a rough date.

Since my spelling and grammar can, at times like these, be quite atrocious, if you find any errors, don't be afraid to contact me by pm or by review, I accept both (and anonymous reviews). If you feel the sudden need to be my beta, please leave me a message too, since I'm looking for one.**  
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**The next chapter **will most likely take a while, probably somewhere around the end of September. I'm starting at University (Delft, NL) this year, which'll mean I'm going to be busy, maybe too busy to write. I do hope, however, that once everything calms down a bit, I'll get enough time and inspiration to whip up the still-missing parts of a third chapter.**  
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**Enough rambling for now, enjoy!**

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**Edited version: **Removed a lot of spelling errors (apparently I'm a sloppier writer than I had hoped to be), deleted some of the parts that withstood earlier deletion in one of the heavier edited stories. Softened some of the verbal abuse, and made the lone count of physical abuse by an adult easier believable (after some mildly auto-mutilatory experimentation with a wooden spoon).**  
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**Regarding Chapter 3: **As stated in the edited version of chapter 1, I'm starting Uni, and will not have time (at all, I think) until at least halfway through September. Updates will probably be slow after that too.**  
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**Regarding the abuse: **Most of the reviews found this chapter disturbing (which was exactly what I was going for, though apparently I overdid it), but (spoiler) this will be the only chapter where Harry is directly abused so much(/spoiler). I've toned down the abuse some more, though I had already softened it a lot from the original pieces. There is now only one count of direct physical abuse by an adult, though Harry is hurt more than once by his nephew and his peers.

**I want to thank everyone who has taken the time to review this chapter. Long, critical reviews are exactly what I need to iron out the errors of the story, to change it into something better readable (ignoring the fact that they make me slightly depressed, because that's the mood I need to write further). **

** Addictive Label: **Thank you for the compliment! Harry is not actually 'retarded' in the medical sense, he is highly underdeveloped in social interactions, because the combination of neglect and autism. This story will be at least a 100k words (I plan), so it's a bit logical that I won't have half the storyline written in the first chapter. **  
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** cherrity:** Thank you for the review! I have changed the erroneous 'nephew' to 'cousin'. There is no word for cousin, only nephew and niece in Dutch, but I should've known better. The thought of Harry being autistic is never dismissed, and it's more than just a thought (because it's true), but I have added some small pieces in the chapter that tell what happened or what has been done with the files. I hope it's clearer his way.

** David305:** Thank you for both of the huge reviews! I've replied to you in PM already, but I want to thank you again.

** Midgarosormr**: Thank you for your review! I agree that all abuse is pointless, but even JK Rowling's abuse serves a goal like setting the atmosphere of the story and letting the reader know more about the early youth of the main character. Besides, the abuse in this chapter is hardly different from the abuse written in Canon, only I wrote it clearer, and slightly differently. Harry is treated more or less like slave in doing chores (canon), they keep him in a cupboard (canon), they withhold food as a punishment (canon) or put him in his cupboard (canon). In the books, Petunia has shaved all Harry's hair off because she was angry with it, and Vernon locked Harry in his cupboard from Dudley's birthday to the beginning of the summer holidays. Harry's teachers are slightly abusive in this story, which is something JK Rowling doesn't write about, but most of the abuse in this chapter follows the precedent set by canon quite well.

The main difference between canon and my story is that Harry isn't quite the epitome of mental health here. He is an autistic boy, and socially very inept, and that has worsened enormously because of the abuse and neglect. This makes the effect of the abuse and neglect worse, with far greater consequences than in canon, but the abuse itself isn't worse because of it.

** RRW:** Thank you for the review! I think (and hope) that by the end of this story, the whole of it will be disturbing to read as a human being (not because of the violence or because of the abuse, however).

**Now I have definitely rambled on enough. Enjoy!**

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**23 June, 1985, Dursley Residence, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, England - Unnamed prompt #1  
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"Happy Birthday to our little Dudders!" Petunia screeched.

"Our big boy, already five years old." Vernon said.

"He grows up so fast." Petunia agreed.

The happy parents both cast their best smiles at their not-so-little little boy, Dudley Dursley, who was celebrating his birthday today. Dudley himself was too busy counting his presents to pay attention to the rare occasion of both his parents smiling. He had just learned to count in preschool, and had taken this opportune moment to see if his parents had given him enough presents this year to not throw a tantrum. The counting didn't really go all too well, since he hadn't learned to count beyond ten so far, and the number of presents was higher than that.

Another boy, far smaller than Dudley, cautiously moved towards the table, carrying a pan with both hands. He could only barely lift it, since he looked no more than two years old. This boy, Harry Potter, looked nothing like his cousin Dudley. Harry was extremely skinny, where Dudley was 'a stout fellow', in the words of his mother. Harry was built very delicately, with small, fine features, whereas Dudley's face had a slightly bloated look to it.

Petunia and Vernon glared at the little boy as he came closer, for he had disturbed their happy moment with the family.

The small boy, Harry, carefully put the bacon on the plates that stood on the few spots of table not occupied by the more than thirty presents for Dudley. One slice for Aunt Petunia, Six slices for Vernon and Six slices for Dudley as well.

Then Harry lifted the pan again and moved back to his little stool near the stove. He wasn't tall enough to look over the top of the stove with or without the stool, but he couldn't even reach the top without it. Despite the fact that he couldn't see where to put the pan, he strained his little arms to lift it high enough to put it back on the stovetop. He strained, worked and tried with all his strength, but couldn't. The pan was too heavy for him to lift even beyond his shoulder, and he could barely carry it from the stove to the table. Nonetheless, he tried to lift the big pan, but failed. His small, delicate arms were exhausted from the strain of lifting the heavy thing, and after only a few small trembles, the heavy pan dropped out of Harry's hands on the ground with a loud 'clank!'

"Potter!" Vernon bellowed after startling from the sound of the heavy pan falling.

"Daddy! The Freak ruined my birthday!" Dudley cried before Vernon could shout anything else at the little boy.

"I'll not have you ruin my son's birthday!" Vernon shouted. "To your cupboard!"

The small boy quickly left the kitchen with bowed head and hanging shoulders to go to his cupboard in the hallway. He entered the dark little room, closed the door and carefully laid himself down on his blanket. The small boy curled up, like he always did.

Harry was ashamed of himself. He should have held that pan for long enough to lift if back to the stovetop. He knew Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon could do it, if they wanted. Dudley could probably do it, since Dudley was really strong. He was bad for not being able to lift a single pan! And he had ruined Dudley's birthday on top of that. He knew Dudley had already had two birthdays he could remember, while he had had none, but that didn't make the day any less special. But at least uncle Vernon hadn't forced him to clean everything up today…

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**December 1985, St Grogory's Primary school, Little Whinging, Surrey, England - Preschool Harry  
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A tiny boy was hoisted on the arm of his teacher. The other boys had yelled at him and the small, shy boy had burst out in tears.

"Oh Harry," The teacher said as she put the tiny boy down and wiped his tears away with a handkerchief. "What must become of you later?"

Mrs Erronds, Harry's teacher, was a sturdy woman in her early forties who had worked her whole life in Little Whinging Elementary School in Surrey. She didn't normally have children in her year that had 'special needs', or were to be classified as such. She had had pretty normal children, some a bit brighter than others, but none who needed special care. Harry wasn't her first charge who had trouble with the curriculum, but he was the first one about whom she had doubts whether he'd ever make it into being a useful member of society.

"Will you ever grow up to be normal?" She asked herself more than her charge with a sigh.

Let there be no doubt about the fact that she loved the tiny boy as she did with all of her children. He was a perfect angel on most days, with not a bad bone in his body, the way he could peacefully sit in a corner and play with whatever he had been given. But as soon as you spoke to him, he'd look at you with those big green eyes, and then completely misunderstand what you tried to say. He was absolutely not the brightest bulb in the bunch – though he was the sweetest thing on some days – but even a… the medical term used to be 'moron', when she was young, or 'mentally retarded', but she wouldn't dare think to use it on Harry… a normal, any normal, child would understand what you were trying to say, or at least come near understanding.

But not little Harry. If you'd ask if he had fun playing, he'd offer you the toy he was playing with, though often you could see in his eyes that he would rather play further. And if you then took the toy he offered, he'd stand up from where he was playing and sit in a corner, staring at you. When you'd bring the toy to him, he'd go back to where he had been playing, and the circle would start over again. It was quite disconcerting to see.

Harry reacted in strange ways to many things. If you'd ask if he were hungry, or if you'd offer him food, he'd look at you non-comprehendingly and stare at you until you left or put the food away. Sometimes you could hear his little stomach make noise from hunger, and he'd stare at the offered food almost longingly when he thought you weren't watching. If was the same with thirst and water.

Mrs Erronds reckoned she was lucky that she hadn't had Harry last year. She had heard from Mrs Jimmers, the preschool teacher that covered the class below her, the lowest class, that Harry hadn't been as easy as he had been this year. She had heard that he'd wet his pants almost every day, which was a right mess to clean up when you're watching ten kids, and that Mrs Jimmers had complained numerous times to his guardians, Petunia and Vernon Dursley, about him. But this year, Harry hadn't wet his pants at all, so she was grateful for that.

But what ticked Mrs Erronds the most about the small boy was the fact that he never ever made any noise, at all. She was of course used to the noise levels of a group of ten five year old boys and girls, but even when Harry was awake during naptime, he never made the slightest sound. He walked so that his feet wouldn't scuff the floor, he moved slowly and carefully so that his coat wouldn't rustle, and he never ever spoke a single word.

Of course, she had reported this fact to his caretakers, but they adamantly stated every time that Harry spoke at home often enough. And sometimes, quite often in fact, Mrs Risters, who covered the other group of five year-olds, would come over and complain that some of her children had told her that Harry had said mean things to them. She simply couldn't fathom that if it were true. The small boy was practically afraid of his own shadow, and was wary of anybody save only a few adults – her included, luckily. She couldn't imagine that Harry, who never spoke to anyone, and who seemed frightened by mere contact with others, would hurt anyone verbally, much less physically.

If one of the other children would come over to Harry, the small boy would immediately hand over anything he had in his hands. If the other child refused the toy, Harry would put it on the ground, out of the way if possible, and would then back away as far as he could. Most preschoolers would have been peeved by that and would have left him alone, but if one followed Harry after he'd backed away, the tiny boy would try to flee to any hiding place he could find. Mrs Erronds had once found him hidden in the small cupboard underneath the sink, both behind and in one of the toy chests, underneath the pile of cushions in a corner of the classroom, behind the little toilet across the hall and even hidden between the papers in her bag.

But underneath all these quirks, he was still the sweetest thing she'd ever had the pleasure to teach. He always shared everything without second thoughts about himself – like if one of the other children would drop their cup of milk, Harry would immediately offer them his, and even try to help clean up the mess too – and if any child was crying, he'd immediately offer as much comfort as he could, though in his own way. Not with words, mind you, but simply by standing or sitting with that child and offer silent comfort or, with some people, even hug them.

Once, a few months ago, when she had lost her brother in a car accident, she had become very depressed after the regular three days off for any family emergency. She had gone to work that day with lead in her shoes, feeling absolutely incapable of facing ten five year olds, and had been dreading the business of teaching preschoolers. As soon as she had come into the classroom, and had elicited the excited cries of her ten five year olds happy to see their normal teacher return, she had known she wouldn't make it through the day in that state. But as soon as she had come into the classroom, little Harry had immediately known something had been wrong with her. He had stared for a few minutes, making her a bit uncomfortable, but when the substitute that had been covering her had left, and the director of the school had been long gone, the tiny boy had walked up to her, climbed into her lap and had given her the biggest hug he could give.

She had broken down then, and cried all the depressing thoughts away. Luckily Mrs Risters and Mrs Jimmers had covered for her, and kept an eye on her kids during the outside playtime, so she didn't scare any children by crying. She had clung onto Harry as if he were the teacher and she were the child, but he had sat with her for at least a good hour. After she had sorted through everything, she had discovered that she had been stroking his still baby-soft hair. She found the tiny boy curled up in her lap, fast asleep, with one of his tiny thumbs stuck in his mouth, completely trusting of her. That had been an eye-opener to what a sweet little boy Harry truly was.

With a kind smile to the tiny boy, she put him down on the floor after having dried his tears. "There you go, Harry." She softly patted his head, causing him to shrink as if she were to hit him.

"Go on and play, Harry." She carefully pushed him towards the chest with many toys in it, before turning around to the cries of one of the girls, who had fallen and scraped her knee.

Harry kept on walking in the direction the teacher had pushed him. He stopped when he had reached the wall, awaiting further orders to tell him what to do. After a few moments, the tiny boy realized that he was standing in a corner. Standing in the corner until the teacher called you was a punishment, Harry knew, so he was being punished. Without the complaints that usually come from being punished as a five year old, Harry accepted his punishment without a thought.

The small, delicate boy that stood in the corner tried to think why he was punished. Maybe he wasn't allowed to be lifted by the teacher? She had lifted him, and he hadn't asked for it, so that would be strange. Maybe he wasn't allowed to be touched? But she had started it, and he again hadn't asked for it. Oh! He knew! He wasn't allowed to cry. That was what he had done wrong. He would try not to cry next time, not even the silent crying that Sir Uncle and Ma'am Aunt didn't seem to mind.

* * *

Two of the other boys toddled over to where Harry was standing. They were called Dennis and Malcolm, and they were close friends with Harry's cousin Dudley, though they were not in the same pre-school class. They were both nearly as tall as Dudley, and built very 'burly', for as far as that can be said about five year olds. They saw Harry standing in the corner, head held down and arms pressed against his side. Unconsciously they recognized his submissive posture inviting them to assert their dominance, and without a second thought, like most five year olds, they took the chance to push around a smaller boy.

The two of them towered over Harry with more than a foot difference in height, as both of them were tall where Harry was positively tiny for a five year old, and the smaller boy tensed up as he noticed them standing behind him. One of them, Harry didn't know who, gave him a hard push towards the wall, causing the small boy to smack into the stones. Dazed by the first shove, Harry didn't see the second one coming, and again he was pushed hard against the wall.

Both of the bullies were rather unintelligent, so they grinned a bit dumbly but continued to push and shove Harry against the wall. The tiny boy accepted it without protest, thinking it another part of his punishment. After all, Dudley had often been allowed to hit him as a punishment, so why would this be any different?

* * *

When Mrs Erronds called for lunch a few minutes later, Harry's face had acquired a few new scrapes and bruises, and both his arms and legs, as well as his front, back and sides had also obtained new welts and bumps. His third-hand glasses from the charity bin at the local mall had been cracked again, the fragile, tape-filled frame broken, and one of the lenses had fallen out. Despite the pain, though, the delicate boy fought his tears. He was already being punished for crying, and he would try to avoid being punished again.

The corner Harry stood in was covered in shadow, and the clothes he was wearing had almost the same color as the stones of the wall, so when Mrs Erronds cast a cursory glance over the room to see if she had missed any kids for lunch, she missed him completely. She could have, and probably should have counted her charges for lunch, but since she didn't, she didn't notice. Normally she would have to call Harry specifically for lunch, since he didn't react to the general call like the normal children, but that task disappeared from her mind as three of the boys began fighting over an extra piece of fruit.

* * *

At the end of the day, Harry was still standing in the corner. His stick-thin legs were trembling with fatigue, and the frail boy was fighting to remain standing. Hopefully, if he completed his punishment, Mrs Erronds Ma'am wouldn't punish him again.

"Harry?" Mrs Erronds asked when she saw the tiny boy standing in the corner.

When he didn't react, she softly put her hand on his shoulder, because she knew that the small boy was very jumpy and didn't like to be touched. But as she did so, the added weight, no matter how little, was too much for Harry's tired legs, and the tiny boy fell down to the floor.

"Harry!"

The delicate boy that had fallen to the ground swiftly dropped his gaze. He had failed to finish his punishment, so he had been bad, so he must be and would be punished again.

" 'm s'rry Mrs 'rronds ma'am." Harry said, surprising his teacher. She hadn't heard him talk a word in weeks, and she was surprised at the hoarseness of the soft, delicate voice.

She lifted Harry, which was hardly any work since the boy was incredibly light. Even as tired as he was, which normally makes children feel heavier, the wisp of a boy barely weighed a thing. She was sure she could lift him with one hand without any trouble, if she wasn't afraid she'd break him and shatter him into a thousand tiny little pieces if he fell.

Mrs Erronds carefully rested the boy as you would hold a baby, so that it can look over your shoulder. She put her hand on his delicate back, covering it almost completely. She carefully moved one finger softly back and forth over the tiny back, clearly feeling the fragile spine underneath the clothes, and she slowly began to rock the frail child as he put his small head on her shoulder, crying softly.

"It's okay, Harry. Shhh, it's okay."

Mrs Erronds mused that she found herself consoling the small boy quite often. She knew that some of the other boys sometimes played a bit roughly with him, but he was just so much smaller than them. Mrs Risters, who had one of the other groups of five-year olds, had commented on his size quite often, because where Harry was positively tiny in comparison to his peers, his nephew Dudley was the tallest boy of the grade. But, Mrs Erronds mused, Harry was so much sweeter than Dudley that his size didn't matter a thing.

She had covered the other group of five year olds a few days, since Mrs Risters had been ill and her group was a lot rowdier than her own group, they had swapped them so the substitute wasn't thrown to the lions right at the start. Her own group was very calm, the boys were not overly rowdy and all of the girls were pretty friendly with each other. Only the tiny boy that she carried on her shoulder now had been a bit of a trouble for the substitute.

Harry's quirks often caused many to regard him as strange, both among his peers as well as among adults, and it caused him a lot of trouble to interact with others normally. The substitute teacher had been very young, this being her first year of teaching, and, as Mrs Erronds often said to herself, Harry required a bit of a manual. You'd need to know how he'd react to things, and be prepared to make small exceptions for him, to make the day pass smoothly.

Mrs Erronds also knew that the young boy would most likely never change from the way he was now. He'd never lose the strange quirks and the odd behavior. She knew that he was in for a very harsh time in elementary school, and secondary school as well, children of elementary school ages cannot deal well with children so strange to them. She knew he would be bullied mercilessly, no matter how sweet he was. If anything, his naivety and innocence would cause him to be bullied more. But nonetheless, Mrs Erronds hoped that the small boy would one day find somewhere to call home, and someone to call a friend.

* * *

**April 1986, St Grogory's Primary School, Little Whinging, Surrey, England - The little Boy in the Corner and unnamed prompt #2  
**

* * *

There was a tiny little boy sitting in the corner of the playground. He was only barely out of the toddler stage, having lost the cherubic toddler-cheeks already, but only barely. Even then, he was still very small. He was sitting in the corner, little knees drawn up to his chest and tiny arms circled around them.

He wore clothes that were much too big for him. A shirt that was at least three times the size he should be wearing, one of his delicate shoulders poked out of the neck-hole, with sleeves that were almost twice as long as his arms. His worn old jeans were made for boys two times his age at the very least, and they were kept on his narrow hips with a piece of string. A long part of the legs of the trousers was ripped off, but they were still folded up many times. Underneath the legs was a pair of tiny little shoes, not larger than any shoes you'd buy for a baby. They were worn almost to the point of nothingness, but they were the only article of clothing on the little boy that fit him.

The small boy was unusually frail, with a delicate neck supporting an angelic face. His features were still small, like those of a baby, but they weren't chubby in the least. He looked like he was made of spun glass, with a delicate nose, a small chin, a little mouth, tender cheeks and big, gazing green eyes.

The tiny boy had creeped out many people, both adults and peers, with these big green eyes. They were hauntingly large in his tender face, staring unblinkingly at you. The only thing visible in the intense stare would be a frightened curiosity. The boy could keep still for hours on end, watching the exact same spot for all the time, only interrupted by blinking now and then. It creeped many people out.

If you had to place any age on the boy in front of you, you'd guess he was two, and not a day older. But the tiny, frail boy was in reality already six years old.

* * *

Rothilda Arons let out a sigh as she watched over the special needs children of the First and second grade of St. Grogory's Primary School. St. Grogory's was the largest of the two schools in Little Whinging, Surrey, and unfortunately it was also the school with the most troubled children out of the two. Many parents with children with things like autism, ADD or dyslexia sent their children to St. Grogory's. It was most likely because of the small class sizes, which was a result of slightly misplaced government funding, that this was done. She didn't mind, because those children needed and deserved an education too, but dealing with fifteen troubled children on a day-to-day basis was … tiring.

There were the twins, Robert and Garret, both had severe dyslexia, but they also had a tendency to bully smaller kids. Then there were Christina, Rose and Agnes, three girls with severe ADD. Luckily enough they were the best of friends, otherwise she was sure they'd have pulled each other's hair out already. Little Maxwell had autism, though not an extremely heavy form of it. He could come along quite well, if you just let him do everything his own way. Amanda had a different form of autism, but she was so very quiet and calm you'd forget about her easily. Dennis and Malcolm both had small physical impairments, with Dennis having a bit of a difficulty hearing (though it wasn't much), and Malcolm having trouble writing because of an accident that damaged his hands badly. Of course Belle had the same trouble, since she was Malcolm's twin and they had been in the same accident. Then there were Piers and Gordon, both of which had a behavioral disorder, meaning that both of them never listened to any adult (something which she wasn't sure she believed), and then there were, of course, the cousins Dudley and Harry. Dudley was perhaps the most normal out of the bunch of kids, he had mild dyslexia, but suffered from severe obesity. Harry, on the other hand, was the real problem child of the class. He was extremely small, something she was sure was a physical disorder of some kind, though she couldn't prove it, and he had the most severe case of autism she had ever seen.

She was quite learned in the ways of autism (having had multiple courses on recognizing symptoms and dealing with autistic children), so she could sum up a complete list of the autistic symptoms Harry displayed. His muscle tone was very poor, since she had often seen him having trouble moving around or lifting things. His coordination was equally poor, since he almost always used both hands to do even the simplest of tasks. He'd use both hands to grab his pencil, by way of example, and then move it slowly over the paper to write down a letter. As a consequence, he wrote quite big, and, on a good day, even almost legible, but extremely painstakingly slow.

Harry did everything in his way, and had many strange quirks, though he wasn't as fixed on ordering things as most autistic children are. His behavior, however, was decidedly strange, very weird for a child of six. For instance, he only ever ate dry bread, even though his aunt often made him other lunches, but he'd give those to Dudley because he didn't want them anymore. He never accepted any kind of sweets or candy, wanting nothing to do with it. He always wore the same clothes, which also were much too big for him. He never ever started a conversation, and any questions were answered in the shortest way possible, though they always were exceedingly polite. Sometimes, she wondered whether the boy could even say something other than 'yes ma'am' or 'no ma'am'.

All of this had led Ms Arons to the conclusion that young Harry had autism, and she treated him as well as she could. She never called on him in class, since she knew he didn't like attention, and probably wouldn't answer. She tried to watch out for him on the playground, since she knew that the other children weren't so accepting of Harry's disorder as she was. She always remained calm with him, because she knew that if she'd lose her temper, he'd lose his as well.

For these simple reasons, Harry loved Ms Arons. The small boy appeared to be incapable of showing it, but while making art projects, he always took extra care of them, and gave them to her. Most of them were true art projects of a six-year old, which means quite clumsily made, and often not really durable, but Ms Arons could tell that Harry always did his very best to work for her, and that inspired her to work hard for him too.

Even now, she was watching over the tiny boy. It was playtime, and the special-kids class, since 'special-needs' sounds so bad to parent's ears, could play outside on the playground in front of the school. Most of her charges did what children their ages normally do, but a few of those under her care needed a bit of extra care.

Harry, for instance never moved during recess. The tiny boy always hid away in one of the many hidden corners where the playground bordered the stone walls of the neighboring flat. He never moved during recess, not even when a football had come right towards him from the football game of his peers, and almost knocked him out cold against the bricks. Ever since that incident, Ms Arons took extra care of Harry, checking him every minute or so.

Ms Arons would readily admit that she took extra care of Harry because he managed to play her heartstrings so easily. The tiny boy was impossibly skinny, shy and easily frightened, and the oversized clothes he wore didn't make him look any older than he was. She just couldn't help but mother him a little bit more than the rest, taking extra care to be kind to him. Most six year olds wouldn't want to be mothered like she did to Harry, but the young boy soaked it up like a sponge. The small boy seemed happy, actually, whenever she carefully rubbed his back – because she knew that ruffling his hair frightened him – or whenever she said something nice to him. It brought a rare smile to his face, something Ms Arons was sure that very few teachers could do.

Unfortunately, at the end of the year, the government funding was cut, Ms Arons was fired, and all the special-needs children were placed back into normal classes.

* * *

**October 1987, Little Whinging, Surrey, England - Changing a world (original version), Chapter 1 (edited)  
**

* * *

Privet Drive number four, Little Whinging, Surrey, was exactly the same house as Privet Drive number one, two and three, as well as all other numbers going up to two-hundred and fifty-six. Only Privet Drive number four had, besides the almost comically common residents, two elephants and giraffe, a secret.

This secret happened to be a very scrawny and extremely shy little boy that mostly went by the name of 'boy', or 'freak' if his caretakers were angry, even though his real name was Harry James Potter. This seven year-old boy was exactly three feet tall, from the bottom of his worn-out boots to the top of his black-haired head. At barely twenty-five pounds he weighed almost a quarter of the youngest resident elephant's weight who, also aged seven, was dangerously obese.

This little boy always went about in a set of non-matching clothes that seemed at least eight sizes too big for him. They were the hand-me-downs of his cousin, who stood like a giant compared to little Harry. The shirts he wore were so big that they usually exposed one very thin shoulder at the top, and reached to his knees at the bottom. The sleeves of the shirt were torn off halfway so that Harry could use his hands without having to search a way out of it first, but they were still so wide that you could see his ribs if you looked into the sleeve. The pants were no better, for they were held up to his scrawny waist by an old piece of rope that he had gotten out of the garbage bin, and the legs of the pants were folded so many times that it looked like he was wearing footballs around his ankles. The cheap, third-hand glasses that had been broken so many times the lenses were more crack than glass, and the frame more tape than plastic, stood precariously balanced on his little nose.

Shy little Harry Potter was, at the moment of writing, trying to pass the hours unnoticed in the back of the classroom. The other kids treated him either as a leper or as prey – depending on the situation and the number of supervising adults – and the resident teachers of the local elementary school treated him like an attention-seeking trouble-maker – courtesy of the older resident elephant and the resident giraffe of number 4 Privet drive. Apparently the shy, timid nature that Harry displayed in class was not enough to sway the teachers of their predefined opinion, because their dislike for the little boy was obvious.

"Now, if all of you get one of the books donated to us by the library, we can start the reading project." Mrs Fern, the class teacher, said. She was a sturdy forty-something woman with her hair in an ever-present strict bun on the back of her head. She was an old classmate of Vernon from Smeltings, Vernons High School, and she carried almost as much dislike for little Harry as he did.

Most of the class stood up after her call, the ones that didn't were shooed towards the bookcase by Mrs Fern, and they all grabbed a book. The resident elephant, as Harry perceived his cousin Dudley, and his group of friends – which, unfortunately for Harry, was most of the class – had the thinnest books with the biggest letters and the most pictures, leaving only the biggest, most boring books for Harry to choose.

Harry looked at the bookcase with a silent sigh. He didn't detest reading, he even loved it most of all the things he was allowed to do in school, but the books that were left in the bookcase were old and damaged. All of the books had frayed edges, torn pages and ink stains all over them, and some books had even been ripped apart or burned.

Harry sighed again. If he grabbed a damaged book, the teachers would undoubtedly blame him for the state it was in, despite the fact that he was more careful than any other with a book. He knew he'd be punished for damaging the books even if he didn't touch them, so it wouldn't matter which book he chose. He'd get the blame any way.

* * *

"Mr Potter! What in the name of god did you do to that book!" Harry's teacher, Mrs Fern, said loudly. The sound startled little Harry, who was painfully afraid of hard sounds and flinched every time a loud noise was made.

"It is horrible!" Mrs Fern said as she grabbed the book from Harry's hands. "There are ink stains everywhere! The pages are damaged and the book smells like it has been fished out of a garbage bin!

Mrs Fern turned her attention from the book to Harry.

"Why did you do it?" She asked menacingly. "Do you enjoy destroying the properties of others? Hmm? Do you!?"

"No ma'am." Harry said softly, frightened by the big woman that towered over him.

"Then why did you destroy it?" She almost hissed in anger. "Now the school will have to pay for the damages to this book! I'll make sure your Aunt and Uncle know what you have done!"

Harry tried to curl up in fear. Anger directed at him always frightened the young boy, since he had never been taught how to deal with it. This led to him curling up, protecting himself, or half-failing to stop himself from doing so. Some other kids did that too, when someone was really angry at them, but they didn't flinch like Harry did when someone was angry. They must be really brave and strong, Harry had often thought, to not be frightened by angry adults.

"I will not stand for this! You will personally return it to the library after school today and apologise to them for destroying this book!" Mrs Fern nearly shouted, oblivious to the emotions she was causing to the little boy in front of her. "They will know how to deal with good-for-nothing little brats like you."

Harry did everything he could to fight the tears evoked by the scary anger of his teacher, but he failed. Mrs Fern paid no attention anymore to the little boy, the smallest one the school had seen in all its years. The other kids did, unfortunately for Harry, and encouraged by his own cousin Dudley they taunted and jibed little Harry when Mrs Fern wasn't looking for the rest of the day.

* * *

By the time school was out, Harry's tears had abated, but the taunts and cruel insults had not. Little Harry held his head down in a sign of submission, feeling miserable because of the hateful and spiteful things that his classmates were saying. Despite the fact that he was insulted and taunted, bullied and provoked every day, Harry rarely reacted in a way the bullies wanted, choosing to take everything thrown at him. He had never been taught to deal with things children often do to each other, but he had taught to 'be quiet!' and 'go to your cupboard!', so Harry always accepted his treatment, enduring it. Besides, he believed most of the insults were true. His parents had been worthless drunks, he was a stupid, good-for-nothing freak and he was ugly and dumb. There was little point in denying it, but despite that, it still made the small and shy boy hurt a little bit every time he was called bad things.

The group of children that taunted and insulted him followed him through the streets of Little Whinging, but that group became smaller and smaller as Harry neared the library. And by the time Harry rounded the last corner, he was all alone.

It was cold, so the small boy pulled his ragged, worn-out, eight-sizes-too-big sweater closer around him – Aunt Petunia had taken Dudley's old coat from him last year, and hadn't given him a new one yet despite it already being October. She normally gave him a coat when the temperature dropped this low, but she hadn't done such a thing this year yet, and Harry was afraid to ask. He had learned never to ask for anything.

Harry entered the library, a big, solid concrete building that had survived the last world war despite being hit by multiple bombs – which could have been explained by the massive, looming concrete facade that frightened little Harry – and survived through a series of harsh reorganisations of the landscape over the past year – which was nothing short of a miracle.

He gathered up all the courage he could muster, and stepped forward to the desk.

"Yes?" The old librarian asked, a tall woman in her late sixties who looked like she was trying to kill people just by looking at them.

"Uhmmm." The shy boy managed to say, the annoyance of the librarian making him even more nervous.

"What?" The librarian said, not wanting to waste time on worthless children.

Harry didn't answer, he held his head down and looked at the ground.

"Speak up, boy!" The librarian ordered. The anger behind her statement shocked Harry out of his stupor.

"Mrs Fern told me to return this book, Ma'am." Harry said, ducking his head and awaiting the blows that would surely come very soon.

"Put the book over there." The librarian said after taking one look at the title. It was a book that had been thrown away years ago, it had been out of the collection for ages, but it wouldn't do for a child to know that.

Little Harry had turned around and was about to walk away as silently as he could – the old librarian scared him – when she called to him.

"Wait, boy!"

Harry turned back around, his head ducked low in case she was going to hit him. You never knew with adults, whether they were going to hit you or not, and it was better safe than sorry in his eyes. Most adults only hurt him when angry, but his uncle and cousin had often enough beaten him while they were laughing, and his aunt had equally often hurt the little boy when she felt merely annoyed, just like the librarian right now.

"Do you have a library card already?" The old librarian asked, and it took Harry a few moments to notice that it was a question and not an order, and to formulate a response.

"No ma'am." The little boy said shyly.

"Do you want one? It's free." The old librarian asked. It was her duty to ask, because the number of valid – and used – library cards had dropped dramatically over the last years and the big chiefs of the united libraries had decided to make it protocol for librarians to ask children under the age of twelve whether they had a library pass or not, and give one to them for free if not. She personally thought it a bit useless, because she knew that none of the kids she offered would ever come back to get a book, much less to bring the book back safe and whole if they did get one. So she was naturally reluctant to give the scrawny, dirty and ragged-looking little urchin a library pass. He certainly didn't look like that he could properly take care of himself– much less a book – but then again, he had brought an old book back that had been thrown away long ago. That must have been a standing order of the teacher he mentioned, she was sure he wouldn't have done it otherwise.

During her musings, little Harry's world had turned upside down. He was getting offered something – for free! He'd never had that happen to him before, not even Dudley or his Uncle were often offered something for free. Should he take it? He certainly didn't deserve it, but his Uncle had often told Dudley that 'if you can get something for free, you take as much of it as you can.' And if his Uncle had said it, it must be true.

"Yes please, ma'am." Harry said shyly, almost inaudibly soft. But it was loud enough for the old librarian to hear, and she immediately began writing out a card – wanting to get rid of the little urchin that soiled her preciously clean library floor.

"Name?" She questioned.

Harry hesitated. Should he say 'boy' or 'freak?' His teachers and his Aunt and Uncle used both terms equally often, though they only used 'freak' when they were angry. But then he remember that his Uncle told him that if someone other than him, his aunt or Dudley asked his name, or there were any others nearby, that he was to say 'Harry Potter'.

"Harry Potter, ma'am."

"Date of Birth?" she asked.

"29th of September, 1981, ma'am." Harry said. His Aunt and Uncle had drilled this into him too, to make him look less small for his age.

The old librarian typed the information in on her computer, and printed out a small card.

"Put your name here." She said as she pointed to the right bottom edge of the card.

Harry carefully wrote out his name – small, because there was not a lot of space on the right bottom edge, but neatly.

"Good." The old librarian said after he had written his name.

"You can borrow a maximum of eight books at any time, and you can only borrow them for three weeks at maximum. You're always allowed to bring them in earlier, or get another stamp to borrow them longer after the three weeks are up. If you don't bring them on time, you'll get a fine, depending on the number of days you're late. So don't be late!" She said quickly, rattling off the words like a high-speed train. She put extra attention on the last sentence, still not totally trusting the little urchin in front of her.

The small boy nodded his head in acknowledgement, and quickly turned around to leave the building. His mind was still reeling with the thought of getting something offered for free.

* * *

Sunken deep in his thoughts, the little boy wandered back from the library to Privet drive number four, where his chores lay waiting. He entered round the back – 'only good people go through the front door', his uncle had said so – and his Aunt was already waiting for him.

"Where have you been, boy! School ended half an hour ago! You were thinking about skipping your chores weren't you?" Aunt Petunia screeched to the little boy in her kitchen, who flinched from both the sound of her loud, screeching voice and the surprise of being shocked out of his thoughts. He forced himself to remain standing perfectly still, not fidget, but listen and obey like a good freak.

"Yes ma'am. I'm sorry, ma'am." Harry said. He knew from experience that it was better to just admit to doing something – even if you hadn't done such a thing – because freaks were to be punished for everything anyway. And he had learned always to apologize as much as possible, so he always apologized immediately too.

"Stick your hands out!" Aunt Petunia ordered, a big and heavy wooden spoon already in her hands.

Harry dutifully stuck out his hands, palms up, as his Aunt usually demanded. Punishment with palms down was only reserved for when he had been really bad, because he couldn't move his hands for days afterwards.

Aunt Petunia smacked Harry with the wooden spoon, one time on the palm of each hand. Harry flinched from the pain, but he dutifully kept his hands out. The small boy fought the tears that were coming, but luckily won. He knew his aunt and uncle absolutely hated him crying, and he had learned to stop sniffing while crying, so that his Aunt sometimes wouldn't notice his tears if he kept his head down.

"This will learn you to think about skipping chores again, boy!" Aunt Petunia screeched.

"Y-yes ma'am." Harry said , trying to keep his head down, face hidden from his Aunt.

"You will start your chores now, and you will get extra as a punishment. Clean the sitting room!"

"Y-yes ma'am." Harry said dutifully. He didn't mind dusting the sitting room normally, but with his hands hurting like this, it was going to be very painful.

Despite the fact that vacuum cleaners had been invented, and that the Dursleys possessed one very high-quality vacuum cleaner, Harry was expected to do everything by hand. The vacuum cleaner had been very expensive, the Dursleys reasoned, so it wouldn't do to let such a freak pollute it. Besides, they had only bought it to impress visitors, and it did that job best when still brand new, so why use it?

Petunia shot the little boy a glare, almost making little Harry flinch, but he could just prevent it by taking a breath and holding it. As Harry grabbed a bucket which was at least half as tall as he was, and an old rag that didn't look much worse than the rags he was wearing, Petunia left the room.

Harry dutifully filled the bucket with hot water and the necessary cleaning agents – which normal people used with gloves, but Harry had none, so he did without – before he lifted it by taking the iron handle in the pit of his elbow to spare his hurting hands and carrying it to the sitting room.

Inside the sitting room, Harry put the bucket down in the middle of the room. He knew the Dursleys didn't like having him in their house – as shown by the lack of pictures of him on the mantelpiece, the tables and the shelves. He had never even had a picture made of him – he was always 'ill' during school photo shoots, he was never taken to amusement parks and on the few odd times he was even let out of the house at all, the Dursley's made sure he was passed by as inconspicuously as possible.

Harry carefully grabbed the rag out of the hot water while trying to hurt his hands as little as he could. From experience he knew that it would take at least two or three days for them heal a bit, and avoiding using his hands would make him very tired by the end of the day, and most of tomorrow as well, but at least it would make them heal faster.

* * *

Over the course of two hours, Harry cleaned the sitting room, the kitchen, the bathroom upstairs and downstairs and the master bedroom. He dusted, swept, straightened, tidied, mopped, dried and polished everything in sight. Despite the fact that his delicate hands hurt because of his punishment, every visible surface gleamed brand-new when he was done. But the shy little boy was exhausted by the time he was done, worn out by the hours of cleaning everything in sight. He could barely keep his eyes open, even with the dull ache he felt from his hands.

"Boy!" Aunt Petunia screeched to the little boy from downstairs.

"Yes ma'am?" The small boy answered softly from the top of the stairs.

"Get down here!"

Harry silently obeyed, carefully descending the stairs. He was only three feet tall, much too small for a boy his age, and he had a bit of trouble descending the stairs swiftly. Despite the glasses, he still couldn't see entirely clearly and even if he could, his legs would have been too short to make climbing or descending the stairs go swiftly.

"Have you finished all your chores?" Petunia asked.

"Yes ma'am." Harry said softly.

Petunia dragged her finger over the cupboard in the hall, and inspected it for dust.

"You call this clean?" She asked the little boy scathingly while showing him her finger, which looked as if it had just been washed.

"No ma'am." Little Harry answered, already correctly anticipating what his aunt wanted to hear.

"So why did you lie to me that you had done your chores?"

"I'm sorry ma'am." The small boy said. His eyes were resting on the floor, freaks weren't allowed to look people in the eye. He tried to make himself smaller without moving, to present less of a target to hit.

"To your cupboard!" Petunia said.

The small boy dutifully entered his cupboard, and closed the door behind them. In the hallway, Petunia muttered something about 'worthless good-for-nothing freaks', before setting out to make a perfect dinner for her perfect family and forget about the freak in the cupboard.

* * *

Inside said cupboard, little Harry began crying softly, distressed by his whole day. hHs teacher had been angry with him, Aunt Petunia had been angry with him and his peers were always angry with him - calling him names and bullying him. He curled up in his blanket, the same blanket in which he had been delivered on the doorstep five years ago. He hadn't grown that much since, so the grey blanket that had – once – been pale blue, could still cover him whole like it had done for the past five years. Delicate tears fell from the green eyes that once shone like emeralds, but only seemed to be full of fear and hurt now, to drip from the small face on the old blanket, which was smeared with small stains of blood from when the Dursleys had neglected to treat the scrapes or small cuts he always carried. The tiny boy shook harshly from the sobs he was trying to keep in, and buried his head in the blanket while suppressing a shiver.

Exhausted from the tiring day and the injuries on his hands, Harry fell asleep quickly after being shoved in his cupboard. He was curled up in both his blanket and the oversized sweater he was wearing, packed in much like he had been six years ago when he was delivered on the doorstep. If you'd compare how he looked now and then, you'd only guess a year or so had passed. He was only three feet tall, average size for a two-and-a-half year old, and at twenty-five pounds he was almost exactly as heavy as he had been at fifteen months. And the peaceful expression that came with sleep, devoid of the pain, fear and sorrow that normally filled his face, made it even easier to believe that only a short time had passed between his delivery at the Dursleys and now.

Harry's diminutive stature and small body weight were caused by malnourishment, something which was caused by the Dursleys sometimes withholding food from Harry as a punishment and by the large amount of chores the young boy did every day, as he had done for as long as he could remember. With each rib clearly visible underneath the pale skin – if it wasn't marred with bruises from his 'accidents' – and each limb looking more like a stick than a human appendage, it was made all the easier to believe that Harry was a strange, weird boy for neighbours, teachers and other people. After all, in a family where the father and son were morbidly obese – though the mother continuously claimed 'baby fat' for the son – there wouldn't be a shortage of food, would there?

That, combined with Harry's almost perpetual silence, his tendency to sit perfectly still in a corner and watch what was happening for hours on end, and the stories Petunia always told, made believing Harry was a freak almost normal to his neighbours. They wouldn't think it even in the slightest bit odd that the young boy was out in the rain, weeding the garden, because they knew, as Petunia had told them, that Harry loved working in the garden, but hadn't yet completely realised that rain was wet, and felt bad. And they always saw Dudley, being the good boy Petunia told them he was, play with Harry, taking them with him and his friends as they did whatever boys do away from adult eyes.

The tiny boy shivered underneath the thin blanket and the equally thin t-shirt. The wall of the cupboard it shared with the outside of the house wasn't isolated, and with a lack of heating of any kind, and the October winter temperatures running lower every day, it was almost freezing in the small cupboard. Most of the energy reserves the small boy had, were directed to producing as much heat as possible to keep the cold out. But without any layer of isolating fat, and only a thin blanket and a worn sweater to keep the warmth inside, Harry couldn't help but shiver from the cold in his sleep.

* * *

By the time the Dursleys had finished eating, well past eight o'clock, Harry was woken up and let out of his cupboard by his aunt. The tiny boy flinched at the sudden sting on his shoulder where she smacked him because he was too slow, but he immediately did as he was told when she directed him to the kitchen.

The kitchen looked like there had been an orgy there. There were stains everywhere – everywhere Dudley had been at least – and there were crumbs and little pieces of food littering around the floor. There was a small puddle of water where a glass had been knocked over, and shards of glass directly next to it where the glass had fallen on the floor. There was a big stain on the white table cloth where – presumably – ketchup had been spilled, and next to it was a large orange stain where the table cloth was drenched in orange juice. There were plates and cups still on the table, as well as all the cutlery and most of the pots and pans used for cooking.

Little Harry let out a very soft sigh as he started cleaning. His aunt and uncle expected the entire kitchen to be spotless by ten, and he would have to hurry if he wanted to have everything done by then. Luckily his hands weren't hurting as much as a few hours before, he could move them a bit better with less pain, so the task might even be completed before that time.

The tiny boy started with the most immediate things first. He grabbed a broom and gathered the smaller splinters, hoping to catch enough of them to avoid getting his feet hurt. He wasn't allowed to wear his threadbare shoes inside the house for fear of getting things dirty – which would happen anyway thanks to Dudley – so every tiny bit of glass he accidentally stepped on was sure to lodge itself into his small feet.

After the glass was cleaned, Harry put all the plates and cutlery, and everything else on the table, on the counter. He was barely tall enough to see over the table without standing on his toes, so he had to stand on a chair to grab the things that were in the middle of the table, but he was able to carry everything over to the counter – where he again had to use a chair, to set everything down on the counter – without breaking a single thing. And, on top of that, he even had been able to eat a few scraps, mostly vegetables from Dudley's and Vernon's plates. Both of their appetites rarely ever left Harry something to eat, if they withheld his normally meager meals as a punishment, but judging by the amount of pots and pans, Petunia had made a feast big enough for both her men.

Once everything was on the counter, Harry once again climbed the chair next to the table, this time to fold the table cloth. All the crumbs fell towards the middle of the cloth, where Harry got a few more bites to eat, before he let the cloth lie on the table to deal with later.

Harry climbed the counter, got some hot water from the faucet while drinking the cold water until it was too hot to drink – he wasn't allowed to drink more than that – but it was enough for him, and started doing the dishes. Everything from plates and cutlery to pans and the furnace was cleaned, dried and put away in the appropriate spots by Harry. The small boy had to climb to get to most of the spots – if not all – and so it took him far longer than it would have taken an adult.

After all the dishes were done, Harry started on cleaning the table cloth by hand, despite the fact that there was a perfectly good washing machine in the house. A brand-new model with every function you could dream of, but only to impress guests. And to make things easier for Petunia, of course, when she somehow couldn't make Harry wash the clothes by hand.

Harry let the table cloth get a good soak first, meanwhile mopping the floor to rid it of all the stains that Dudley's eating brought upon it, before starting to clean the cloth. It was hard work, especially since it was a very big, heavy table cloth, and Harry was only a small and frail little boy.

* * *

Eventually, over the course of a few hours, Harry managed to get the kitchen as clean as it possibly could get. It was so clean from the many times Harry had to clean it, that any patient could have gotten a surgery right there on the kitchen table without even the slightest risk of getting an infection.

When he was done, tired and weary from the hours of hard physical labour, Harry cautiously walked towards the living room to get permission to go to bed. Due to his size, and careful footsteps, he didn't make the slightest sound as he entered the living room, yet it was enough sound for his Aunt to hear when he entered. Petunia and Vernon stood up and went to inspect the kitchen – to get a snack, in Vernon's case – while Dudley remained behind to watch over Harry.

Harry wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep, and he retreated back into his cupboard as soon as his Aunt and Uncle came back from their kitchen inspection, satisfied by Harry's labor. He was asleep again before he could hear Vernon locking him in for the night.

* * *

**September 1988, St Grogory's Primary School, Little Whinging, Surrey, England - Potty**

* * *

A small boy is trying to hide between a bush and the stone wall of the school. He looks ragged, with messy black hair and baggy old clothes. Underneath those baggy clothes, the boy's body is very delicate, almost frail. He's very shy, almost to the point of a phobia, and all those things together make Harry Potter a prime target for bullies.

Harry tries to make himself smaller as two of his bullies pass by the bush he was hiding behind. For once, the small boy has a bit of luck, or maybe it was the fact that his hair and clothes don't stand out in the shadow, but the bullies pass by without noticing him.

Being chased by bullies is not an odd occurrence for the little boy. He is a prime target for bullies, because he doesn't fight back. That doesn't mean that they cannot elicit a response from him, since the small boy is easily reduced to tears, and often cringes for little reason. Those reactions are what make him a prime target for bullies, rather than the fact that he is small, because getting a response is the single most rewarding thing there is for a bully.

"There he is!" One of Harry's tormentors had turned back from the end of the school yard, and had seen Harry's pale little face stick out against the dark stones of the school wall.

"Get him!" Another one shouted, as the chase began.

* * *

Harry was very small and extremely delicately built for a boy of eight, but his small size made him more agile than his tormentors, most of whom relied on strength rather than agility. But his small size also meant shorter legs, and being agile can only help so much, especially when your captors are outnumbering you.

Harry managed to last only two minutes before the bullies had caught him, and had surrounded him against the school wall. The chase was another reason why these children tormented Harry so much. None of the other kids ran away as easily as Harry, yet still got always caught in the end. Harry did, since his small size and near nonexistent stamina meant he couldn't last very long running.

"Hey Potty!" One of the bullies taunted the small boy.

"Potty!" "Potty!" "Potty!" Others joined into the taunt, including Harry's own nephew Dudley.

The name-calling grew into a chant as the first of the bullies took a step forward to push Harry around. These children were only eight years old, but even at this age they took pleasure in psychologically torturing their victim. They pushed around the small boy in a circle, manhandling and pushing the boy towards each other while shouting 'Potty' all the time.

The small, delicate child couldn't handle all this, all the attention and all the sounds, people and movements surrounding him. One of the bullies gave him a little too hard a push, and the delicate boy fell over. Immediately he curled up and put his arms around his head to protect himself. He had been sniffling already, since he wasn't able to withstand the torture of his peers, but the fall tipped him over the edge and he began to cry.

"Awww. Is the wittle Potty cwying?" Dudley, Harry's own nephew, taunted, while leaning closer to Harry and pretending to stroke him. "Awe the big bad boys huwting Hawwy?"

Harry didn't react to Dudley's taunt, even though he heard it. But Dudley was annoyed by Harry's lack of reaction. "I asked a question, Potty! That means you've got to answer!"

But the small boy on the ground didn't react.

"Come on, Dud, Potty's boring now." One of the other bullies said.

"'Kay. See you next time, Potty!" Dudley said before leaving.

Even though Dudley and his friends left Harry alone, the small boy didn't stand up from where he was lying on the stones of the playground. To the small boy, the bullies hadn't left. He was locked in his mind, replaying their taunts and their torture over and over again. To the small boy, the torture still continued on and on, until he was shocked out of it by the loud sound of the school bell signaling the end of the break. Only then did the small boy slowly stand up from the ground, try to dry his tears and stifle his sniffles, and return inside.

* * *

**February 1989, St Grogory's Primary School, Little Whinging, Surrey, England - Trembling Knees**

* * *

With trembling knees, the tiny boy was forced towards the office of the bullying specialist, Mr Enton.

"I hope Philip has more tolerance for your whimpering, Mr Potter, because I am growing tired of it." Mr Rattings said to Harry. "I want you to act as if you're a good boy, for once, because Mr Enton is a specialist in helping boys like you. Now go."

With a push that was harder than strictly necessary, but bespoke of her lack of tolerance for the small boy's 'whimpering', she pushed Harry into the office before closing the door.

The small, black-haired child stumbled into the old office.

"So. You're Harry." Mr Philip Enton, Bullying Specialist of St. Grogory's Elementary School said.

He looked over Harry disdainfully, as if the small boy was a nasty piece of fungus at the bottom of a garbage bin.

"I can see why you'd be getting bullied, with those rags you're wearing. Have you no self-respect?"

The small boy that had barely managed to avoid lying on the floor where Mr Rattings had pushed him, bowed his head even lower than it already was.

"Don't be such a weakling, boy, and take a seat. Bullying can only be stopped if you're acting like a normal human being, otherwise, it'll start over again."

Enton waited for the small boy to climb into the hard-seated wooden chair he had been provided with. He looked the boy over, like a dog breeder would look which pups should be drowned and which would live.

"Since your teachers have told me you're a fairly hopeless case, and since you're one of those with that non-sense new-age 'special needs' thing put on your file, I think I'll have to change my program a bit." Enton said while shifting some papers and bending down to take a new packet from his bag.

Enton was a big man, Harry noticed, much taller than his Uncle, and could compete with him in girth. He had a very old-looking face, etched with lines from years of smoking heavily, and he had a very loud, booming voice. It wasn't a surprise that Harry was frightened from the moment he saw him.

"I shall start with the theory behind stopping the bullying, so that you know what we will do, and why we will do it. Normally, I wouldn't do that, but I'll make an exception. Do you understand me?" Enton said.

The small boy nodded.

"Good." Enton took his seat. "Now, bullying is in fact, quite explainable from a view point of evolution. In many species of animals, most of which live in groups, bullying can be observed. It serves to show who is the strongest and who is the weakest in the pecking order. Bullying serves as a way for the socially strong but physically weaker to beat opponents that are physically stronger than they are. If there was no bullying, the strong can fight the weak, but not the other way around, and only the physically strongest genes would reproduce."

The small boy nodded, even if he didn't really understand what Mr Enton was saying.

"So when we compare that behavior to human behavior, it serves the same function. The reasons behind this are usually many, and much more varied in us humans than in animals, but in essence they are quite alike. In animals, the target is always socially weak, but in humans it might not. In our sessions, we'll assume it is, because you are, and you are physically weak as well."

The small boy nodded again, this time a little more vigorously. He knew he was a weakling, after all.

"If you are both socially and physically weaker than the bullies, you aren't likely to be a threat to them. Threat here means in competition for attention from adults, or food, toys or social standing, not a threat of physical damage, by the way. Seeing that you teachers distribute their attention evenly, and food and toys aren't scarce in a well-off country such as us, it is most likely because of your social standing that you are bullied, Mr Potter."

The small boy nodded again, but unsure of what he was exactly agreeing to.

"So, in essence, you are being bullied because of your social standing. Not because you're the lowest on the pecking order, but because you are a threat to those higher up. That means you have been behaving as someone above your standing, which is a bad thing. We'll need to work that out, because if we don't change that unwanted behavior, nothing will change, got that?"

* * *

**August 1989, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, England - Unnamed Prompt #3**

* * *

Sounds of laughter came from the backyard of number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. Young children were having fun, and the sound of streaming water was also heard. The summer was hot, and it was only reasonable to assume that the group of children were having fun in playing with a hose, since the residents of the house didn't own a swimming pool.

A group of five friends, boys, all aged nine, stood in a close circle, laughing. Their self-appointed leader, Dudley, held a garden hose in his hands, that occasionally spouted water on full blast. They were having great fun, laughing like only children can, with the water.

The target of their fun, and their water, had not so much fun. A boy smaller in every way than each of the five boys stood, dripping wet, where he had been weeding the garden earlier. The small boy, who often had trouble with balance, toppled over from the next blast of water, causing the other boys to laugh. He stood up, but completely still, as if he were waiting for the next shot, before he was blasted over again by a new shot of water.

Despite the laughter coming from the five boys, the one small boy wasn't happy. The water was cold, and even in the hot summer weather, the frail boy was shivering from the cold. Dudley had been shooting the water at him for ten minutes already, and his back and front were hurting from where he had landed on the hard ground.

Harry didn't dare to voice his complaints of course, he didn't even think he had reasons to complain, though many children would've done so if they had been in his thread-bare shoes. He was just a freak, and freaks weren't allowed to complain about anything, nor at all.

* * *

**September 1990, St Grogory's Primary School, Little Whinging, Surrey, England - Excerpt from Beginning Magic (unposted), Chapter 2**

* * *

At the age of 10, it should have been clear to anybody that Harry wasn't completely healthy. He was by far the smallest boy of his grade, and the only one who had yet to reach the four feet. He was very light, at only 35 pounds, despite the fact that he looked to be healthy enough from far away. The tiny boy was highly shy, and often flinched at contact, or tried to evade situations with more than one person close by.

If he was forced into interactions, Harry would only answer in the most basic – yet polite – forms. The only words people heard him speak were 'Yes, Ma'am' or 'No, Ma'am' to his teacher. The small boy had a soft and delicate voice, fitting to his physical stature. He never made eye-contact, and dropped it immediately if it ever was established accidentally. He always sat with his arms pressed close to his body, a bit hunched forward, but looking up at the slightest noise.

Most of the teachers at his Primary School had taught Harry, and all of them knew that the boy was a very strange one. He was one of those 'special needs'-kids, which could mean nearly anything, since the test that classified him as 'special needs' had been a basic aptitude test, which only generally measured his skill in the various subjects he should have been taught in Preschool. They knew that something was off with the young boy, of course, but they also knew Petunia's and Vernon's stories about him. Since there was no money to teach the teachers on dealing children like Harry, and since the Dursleys knew 'how to deal with Harry very well, thank you very much', none of the teachers could actually help Harry, though not for a lack of trying, sometimes.

More than one teacher had tried to take Harry under their wings, trying to speak with the boy on various things like 'why are you wearing those clothes, Harry?', or 'why don't you play like a normal boy, Harry?', but nothing useful had come out of it. Harry wore his clothes by choice, the teachers knew, but they didn't know they were his only choice. They all knew he didn't mind doing chores, and even liked to do some of them, but they didn't realised he preferred doing chores over being punished. Many had even asked why the little boy didn't want to play with the other children, if at all, but the only thing he ever answered was 'I'm sorry, Ma'am,' which made them feel guilty for even asking.

Over the years, the teacher stopped regarding Harry's quirks as strange. They accepted that during class, Harry sat in a corner in the back of the room, silent, though they didn't know that it was because all the busy kids had been placed in the front. They didn't think anything of it anymore when the small boy sat in a corner during recess, alone and silent, staring at his feet most of the time. The boy's strange, anti-social behavior had become quite normal, for teh teachers. He had been sent to a bullying specialist, in the three months that the man had worked in this school, but that hadn't really had any effect, besides affirming the teacher's belief that Harry was a slightly hopeless case. The strange, highly shy boy really just didn't have it in him to be a normally functioning member of a group, much less a society on which he would be a burden later in his life.

* * *

**A/N: Phew. This was the longest chapter I've ever written. Most of the characters in this chapter aren't even OC's (Except for the teachers), but come from the Harry Potter Wikia page, which is a great source of facts you've never known and never will need to know.**

**PS: Reviews are welcome!  
**


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